A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Ethan Baxter wasn’t exactly scraping along the poverty line, was he? No: Ethan drove a Mercedes; Ethan lived in a nice big house in Castleview; Ethan was due a battering anyway, why not throw in a bit of demanding money with menaces too?
Wasn’t as if the bastard didn’t deserve it. And I’m sure – given the choice of a shallow grave or making a donation – he’d jump at the chance to help out an old friend.
I’d be doing him a favour really.
Rationalization that good deserved a fresh cup of coffee.
I got as far as filling the kettle when someone banged on the front door.
‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’
More banging.
I hauled the door open.
Winter had claimed Scalloway. The rooftops were laden with thick crusts of white, the gardens nearly buried. Arnold Burges stood on the path, scuffed yellow wellingtons ankle-deep in snow, dressed in a scabby pair of orange overalls with a quilted jacket over the top and a woolly hat. His eyes were thin and dark, beard bristling.
I blocked the doorway. ‘Arnold.’
He bit his top lip, flexed his hands into fists. ‘She was alive.’ His breath hung in the cold air around his head. It stank of stale booze.
‘Did you drive here? Because—’
‘She was our little girl, and we loved her.’
‘Mr Burges, I know it’s—’
‘But Lauren’s never going to be a person in her own right, is she? She’s always going to be “Lauren Burges: the Birthday Boy’s third victim”. Like her whole childhood, all the time we had together, we were only killing time till the bastard grabbed her.’ Burges reached into his padded jacket and pulled out a red-top tabloid.
Lauren’s photo was on the front page – grinning away with a party hat perched on top of her spiky pink hair – beneath the headline, ‘BIRTHDAY BOY VICTIM’S BODY DUG UP IN OLDCASTLE.’
Bloody Oldcastle CID couldn’t keep its mouth shut if it fell in a septic tank.
‘I’m sorry. I really am.’
Burges looked away, blinking, then went back into his jacket and produced a bulging folder. He held it out. Thick snowflakes settled on the blue surface. I took it from him, put it under my arm.
‘You read that.’ He squared his shoulders, stuck his chin out. ‘You read that and you know our Lauren was real. She wasn’t just a frigging victim.’
‘You have to let the police do their job, Mr Burges. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to stop him. We’re going to make him pay for what he did to Lauren and… And the others.’ And no matter what else happened: he’d live to stand trial. The bastard would be hauled up in front of everyone, found guilty, and sent down for life. Six months tops, before someone carved his eyes out and cut off his balls in the prison laundry. Then we’d all throw a huge party.
Burges stared at me, then took a step back, nodding. ‘They sent someone round the house while I was at work yesterday, stuck a camera in Danielle’s face, wanted to know what it feels like to find out they’ve dug up your dead daughter…’
Before anyone official had even bothered to tell Burges and his wife that we’d found Lauren’s remains. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You should be.’ Burges turned, and lurched back down the path, scuffing his wellies through the snow. A scarred Berlingo van sat by the kerb, ‘CALDERS LEA AQUACULTURE LTD.’ written along the side. Benny waved at me from the driver’s seat.
I waited until Burges reached the gate. ‘I meant what I said yesterday: Henry Forrester did everything he could. It’s not his fault.’
The big man paused for a moment, then clambered into the van without a word.
It slithered away from the pavement and off into the snow.
I shuffled my chair closer to the open oven door. Not the most ecologically responsible way of heating a room, but at least now the kitchen was warm enough to sit in without getting frostbite.
Sheba creaked up from her bed in the corner and collapsed beside my chair, rolled onto her side and exposed her stomach to the warmth.
‘Dear God, when did Henry last give you a bath?’
She sighed.
I unpacked the folder Burges had given me. It was full of reports from private investigators; interview transcripts; Freedom of Information requests; statements from Lauren’s friends and family trying to piece together the last time they’d seen her alive; photos of Lauren at the beach, parties, playing in the back garden. It painted a very different picture from the official file. That one was all about facts and evidence, this one was all about Lauren Burges.
She was like Rebecca in so many ways: a nice girl, from a nice home, who got snatched from her family and tortured to death.
‘Urgh…’ A voice from the doorway.
I turned, and there was Dr McDonald: shuffling, swollen-eyed, brown curls hanging lank and greasy around her pale face.
‘You look awful.’
She winced, held up a finger. ‘Shhhh…’
‘Hungover?’
‘If you make too much noise you’ll wake him, and then I’ll have to start drinking again, and I really don’t want to start drinking again, can we not just sit in silence for a bit and then maybe it’ll all be OK and I won’t feel like throwing myself under a bus or something?’ She lowered herself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, then folded over until her head rested on the working surface. ‘Urgh…’
‘Hungry?’
‘Urgh…’
‘Trust me: get something in your stomach now, before Henry wakes up and cracks open that litre of Bells.’
‘Do I have to?’ She peered at me, head still resting on the countertop. ‘OK. I’ll have eggs and toast and bacon and saus-ages and tomato and mushrooms and chips and black pudding, and—’
‘Then you should’ve stayed at the hotel last night, instead of staggering back here with Henry to polish off the Isle of Jura, shouldn’t you?’ I stood and pulled a greasy paper bag out of the bread bin. ‘Bought a couple of sausage rolls on the way over this morning. You want them warmed in the microwave, or the oven?’
‘I want to go home.’ Music blared out of her jeans. ‘Noooo…’ She pulled a smartphone from a pocket and jabbed a finger at the display. It kept on singing. Jab, jab, jab. Dr McDonald dumped the thing on the breakfast bar and wrapped her arms around her head. ‘Make it stop…’
I picked the phone up. A photo of Detective Chief Superintendent Dickie flashed on the screen.
I went to press the green button, but the music stopped before I got there. He’d rung off.
Then my phone started ringing: ‘DCS DICKIE’. I answered it. ‘What: I’m not your first choice?’
‘Hello? Hello, I can barely hear you…’ A siren blared in the background, nearly drowning out everything Dickie said, even though he was almost shouting. ‘Look, I can’t get through to Dr McDonald – can you tell her Sabir’s discovered an encrypted file on Helen McMillan’s computer. It’s a diary: we know where the signed first editions came from.’
‘Where?’
‘Hello? … Ash? We’re hot-footing it down to Dundee now: speciality bookshop on Forrest Park Road, near the university… Hello? … Hello? … Can’t hear a bloody—’
And that was it: the connection was gone.
I tipped the sausage rolls out of the bag and onto a plate, stuck it in the microwave for a couple of minutes on full. Then passed on Dickie’s message while the thing groaned and buzzed.
Ding.
I clunked the plate down in front of Dr McDonald. ‘Eat.’
She hauled her head off the worktop. ‘Don’t suppose Henry’s got any brown sauce, does he?’
‘You think our bookseller could be the Birthday Boy?’ I nudged the plate. ‘Eat: before the pastry turns to linoleum.’
‘I wouldn’t have put running a specialist bookshop at the top of my list for Birthday Boy occupations. I mean how’s he going to tr
ack the families so he can deliver the card every year?’ She took a bite, then huffed and puffed with her mouth wide open. ‘Ooh: hot, hot, hot.’
‘Sabir says he could be using the internet to find them. Or maybe they all bought books from him?’
Another bite. No puffing this time. ‘Did Hannah Kelly collect rare signed first editions?’
‘No.’ And neither did Rebecca.
‘Exactly.’ Bite, chew, munch.
I put the kettle on again, gritting my teeth as the joints of my fingers grated together. Always was worse when the weather changed. The bruises across the knuckles were starting to fade to yellows and greens. I rinsed out a mug for her. ‘You said you knew I wasn’t a vegetarian because of my face and hands – when we were on the boat, you ordered that steak. And the lamb last night.’
‘The Birthday Boy doesn’t sell books, don’t get me wrong: I’ve known a few people who work in bookshops and they can be really weird, but not torture-porn weird, and that seems to be what he’s making, only not for himself to enjoy – he’s making it for someone else.’
‘What’s wrong with my hands and face?’
‘I think he’s making it for the parents. I think that’s why he’s so squeamish about the girls screaming, why he just dumps the bodies afterwards, why it takes him three days to work up the courage to torture his victims: he’s not really interested in them, he’s interested in their mums and dads.’
I poured hot water into the mugs. ‘“Who’s he really torturing.”’
‘Exactly.’ She crunched into the other sausage roll. ‘I know you’re not a vegetarian, because you’ve got bruises on your fists and your face, then there’s the way you talk to people – the alpha male strut – and I have the deepest respect for you as a police officer, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a man of violence, it … oozes out of your pores. That doesn’t really go with being a vegetarian.’
‘I strut?’ A small laugh broke free and I smiled. ‘Ever seen a G-Twenty anti-capitalist riot? Half those buggers are vegeta-blists. You wouldn’t think they’d have the energy.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, well … sometimes men of violence are what’s needed.’
Twenty past ten and Henry still hadn’t surfaced, but Dr McDonald had figured out how to work the central heating and now the kitchen was positively balmy. She’d perked up a bit too – three mugs of coffee, a pair of sausage rolls, and all was right with the world.
She hunched over the laptop she’d taken out of her leather satchel. ‘He’s signing in…’
The speakers gave a jangly ringing noise, a hiss, a click, and then Sabir’s huge grey face filled the screen. He squinted, and leaned forwards. ‘Mornin’ everyone… Bleedin’ heck: you look like crap, Doc.’
I shifted around behind Dr McDonald, until I could see myself in the little window inset into Sabir’s video feed. ‘Any news on the bookseller?’
‘They’ve got him in an interview room, acting all indignant and “I’ve never done nothin’ to no one”. Dozy Get.’
I leaned in. ‘What about my searches?’
‘Ah, right…’ He grimaced. ‘I might owe you a bit of an apology on that one. Went and did a search on all twelve families and four of them didn’t come up with nothin’ recent enough to find out where they were. Nowhere Joey Public gets access to. Not without some serious IT skills, anyway.’ Sabir’s fingers clacked over the keyboard. ‘Even then: there was bugger all on Hannah Kelly’s ma and da. So I went and did a bit of a hack on the Police National Computer – told it to gizza list of everyone who’s entered search criteria for any Birthday Boy families for the last four years.’
A dialogue box popped up on Dr McDonald’s screen: ‘SABIR4TEHPOOL WANTS TO SEND YOU A FILE. ACCEPT – DECLINE.’
She clicked accept and a spreadsheet opened up in another window. A long list of names and dates.
‘I’ve sorted it by family, year, who’s done the search, and from where.’
I frowned at the names. ‘And?’
‘If youse were hoping for one person who’d done the lot, you’re stuffed. We got about sixty-two searches spread out over forty individuals, no one’s searched for all twelve families. Well, ’cept for me trying it out, and that. Otherwise the record’s eight.’
‘So no Birthday Boy.’
‘Not unless he’s about ten different people, no.’
I got Dr McDonald to scroll through the list. Most of them were from Oldcastle – Rhona’s name was on there, so was Weber, Shifty Dave, along with a chunk of CID and nearly every uniform in the place. And of the lot, Rhona was the one who’d done the most searches: a whole three. Sod.
‘Sorry, Sabir: wasted your time.’
‘Nah, don’t worry about it. We did the same thing four, five years ago when we thought the Birthday Boy might be a bizzie. Even thought we had him once – this sergeant up in Inverness – but turned out he was just a dirty paedo got his rocks off on the Birthday Boy photos. Was worth checking again.’
Henry knocked on the doorframe. ‘Ah, Alice, you’re up. Good.’ He’d changed out of his funeral suit, into a pair of flannels and a beige cardigan going bald at the elbows. He placed a litre bottle of Bells whisky on the breakfast bar. ‘Ready to get back to it?’
Dr McDonald swallowed. Pulled on a smile. ‘Super…’
‘Sabir?’ I turned the laptop around so the screen was pointing at Henry. ‘You remember Dr Forrester?’
Sabir’s face broke into a grin. ‘Doc, how you been? You’re looking—’
Henry reached forwards and closed the laptop lid, shutting him off. ‘I told you, I’m not getting involved: I’m simply helping you and Alice out. If you do that again, I’m out.’
OK… ‘Thought you might like to say hello.’
‘Hmmph.’ He opened the whisky and plucked two glasses from the draining board. Put one in front of Dr McDonald and glugged in a generous measure. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we really need to get back to work.’
Chapter 23
The smell of frying garlic filled the kitchen, steam from the boiling pasta turning the window opaque as the extractor fan struggled to cope.
Henry plonked himself down on one of the stools by the breakfast bar, the litre of Bells clutched in both hands. ‘You know, I rather like Alice: she’s a trooper.’
‘Still throwing up?’ I scraped langoustine tails and chunks of smoked haddock into the frying pan, gave it all a shake. My phone vibrated in my pocket – not an incoming call, a text message. The kitchen clock was pointing out ten to two. That would be Mrs Kerrigan then, wanting to know where her money was and which kneecap I’d like shattered first.
Well screw her. I left it where it was, unread.
Henry made a little harrumphing noise. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. It was… After what happened last time…’ Sigh. ‘Maybe my delightful daughter is right: I’m just a bitter selfish old man.’ A shrug. ‘Tell Sabir I’m sorry, but I can’t face it any more.’
I shredded some fresh parsley and spring onions, chucked them in, then added the double cream. ‘Did you know there’s bugger all in your cupboards, other than bottles of whisky, empties, and a packet of stale Bran Flakes?’
‘I have Bran Flakes?’
‘Had to go shopping.’ It wasn’t as if I’d had anything else to do while the pair of them banged on about stressor events and psychological trigger-points.
He unscrewed the top off the whisky and poured himself a stiff measure. ‘Didn’t know you were a domestic goddess.’
‘Used to cook with Rebecca and Katie all the time. Never really saw the point when I’m on my own…’ I tested the spaghetti. Not quite there yet. ‘So who was this policeman you lot were looking at?’
‘For the Birthday Boy? Pffffff… Now you’re asking.’ He raised the glass to his lips. ‘Glen Sinclair, I think. Or was it Strachan? Struthers? Something like that. He was a sergeant with Northern Constabulary, kept doing PN
C searches on the families, so we picked him up and questioned him. Got a couple of Party Crashers to keep tabs on where he went and who he saw. Two days later he jumped off the Kessock bridge.’ A sip. ‘Long way down.’
‘It wasn’t him then.’
Henry hunched his shoulders. ‘Yet another of my spectacular failures. I’d done a revised profile and he fit perfectly, right down to volunteering to work with children.’
‘Scouts?’
‘Junior league football. After he died we went through his home computer: it was stuffed full of naked little boys. Wasn’t the Birthday Boy at all.’
I drained the spaghetti in the sink, sending a huge cloud of steam billowing up into the room. ‘Only you could make catching a paedophile sound like a bad thing.’
‘We didn’t catch him though, did we? We thought he was someone else, and he killed himself before we knew anything about his photo collection. Probably part of a ring, and we missed the chance to do something about it.’
‘Go shout on Dr McDonald: if she’s finished throwing up, it’s lunchtime.’
Henry stared at his hands. ‘I meant what I said, Ash: you need to tell her about Rebecca.’
I dumped the spaghetti into the frying pan, swirled it around in the sauce. ‘No.’
‘You can’t expect her to draw up an accurate profile when she doesn’t have all the information, you know that. She’ll make assumptions based on what she has, and it isn’t going to—’
‘Then steer her in the right direction. Prod her. Guide her. Make her get it right.’ The pan thumped back down on the cooker. ‘If I tell her, she’ll tell Dickie and they’ll kick me off the case. Compassionate leave, grief counselling; I’ll have to sit at home and watch them fuck everything up while the Birthday Boy keeps on going.’
‘Perhaps grief counselling wouldn’t be a bad—’
‘I’m not telling her, Henry, and neither are you. Understand?’ I switched off the gas. ‘Now go get her before it’s ruined.’
Birthdays for the Dead Page 18